Things You Need

To get to the creek at my parents’ farm, leave the house by the back door.  Stop to admire my mother’s giant pots of herbs and other plants on the wooden deck before heading down the stairs and onto the brick walk.  To your left, you’ll see a perennial bed of, if I remember correctly, white and purple flowers.  And to your right, another smaller bed with shrubs and hosta and a gas lamp permanently lit to welcome visitors.

The gravel driveway will crunch beneath your shoes—and cut bare feet if you’re not careful.  Walk past the garage towards the barn.  To the right, another long and narrow perennial bed.  To the left, the remains of the pasture fence: a small length of wooden sections of posts and rails representing years of farm labor and lessons.  Tall pines on either side of the drive will escort you past the barn to your left.  And to your right, you’ll see the syrup shed, where my father spends late winters turning gallons of sap into the maple syrup that I use to sweeten peaches and strawberries and be reminded of home.  Know that into the concrete floor of that very shed, my children carved their initials with a thick nail. 

But we must go on.

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Moving On

This post was written in respone to an Indie Ink challenge from Jules: My challenge was Moving On.  I challenged Tara Roberts with The College Tour from Hell.

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We gather to celebrate ninety years.  Family members from coast to coast arrive, each bearing a contribution: sandwiches and fruit trays; potato chips and pretzels and pop; even fifty pounds of tomatoes from Marietta, Ohio.

This is my husband’s family.  There are people I haven’t seen in years; people I recognize but whose names I cannot remember. 

We hug one another, how are you-ing down the line of people, reintroducing our children.  We admire the new babies; everyone trying to forge some connection; to claim those children as their own: He reminds me so much of Grandpa.  She’s got her father’s hair.

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